


Adhering To Murphy's Law

by ButcherOfBlackwater



Category: The Boys (TV 2019)
Genre: AU starting in Episode 7, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Blood and Gore, F/M, M/M, Some Plot, Violence, moral crisis
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-13
Updated: 2020-01-02
Packaged: 2020-08-20 11:28:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,686
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20227105
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ButcherOfBlackwater/pseuds/ButcherOfBlackwater
Summary: There's a choice, between going back to his relatively safe life and doing a job that will most likely result in his death. Honestly, Hughie doesn't even have to think about it because there's no going back now.





	1. Immediate Aftermath

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea what I'm doing. I watched the show, I loved the show, but I don't know anything about the comics or anything more than what I've seen. Which means this is going to be AU. Deviates from the show starting at the end of Episode 7. Naqib doesn't show up, Stillwell gets put in a time-out, and nothing that happens in Episode 8 happens in this story.
> 
> This chapter is short, and the run-on sentences are on purpose. I promise the writing will be more coherent at times. The next chapter is probably going to be short too, it's going to cover the changes from the show, and the rest of the story is going to have minor plot.

Hughie can’t make his leg stop. Mother’s Milk is sitting hunched over something laid out on the other side of this small table that the two of them are sitting at, he hasn’t been able to make himself focus long enough to figure out what it is. Across the small room, Frenchie and The Female are sitting side-by-side on the couch. Not touching and not speaking, just looking at the grainy TV screen with the sound turned off. He can’t focus on them either, can’t figure out how either of them works, because all of his attention is on Butcher. He stopped pacing several minutes ago and now has a shoulder braced against a wall, facing away from the rest of the room, and Hughie can’t make his fucking leg _stop_. 

His elbow is pressing down hard against his knee, trying to hold pressure down to stop the dancing, and his fingers keep bouncing against his lips while he nervously bites at the skin around his nails. He doesn’t know where his dad is, Butcher shot Annie, and now he’s stuck in this room waiting to see what’s going to happen next. The heel of his shoe keeps thumping against the threadbare carpet, dull hollow sounds that he suddenly realizes is keeping time with his racing heart, and he keeps looking at the tense line of Butcher’s shoulders as he waits. The waiting is eating at him, everything that’s been going on is ripping him apart inside and rearranging everything he thought he knew, and his throat is tight because he wants to scream. _(Because he wants Robin and his dad’s couch and boring shifts and cheap-)_

“It worked.”

Butcher’s voice cuts through the tense air, and Hughie freezes. His right heel finally touches the floor and stays there, and he feels a wet smear against his chin as his hands fall into his lap. Frenchie and The Female turn their heads in sync to look at Butcher, who still hasn’t turned to look at any of them, and Mother’s Milk is completely still. Hughie needs to move. Everything is too still and too quiet, after days and days _and days_ of movement and sound and _something needs to happen because his skin is too tight and his chest is caving in and he’s going to lose his fucking mind if he has to sit here for another-_

“Stillwell’s gone.”

_-fucking second-_What?

“It’s over?” Frenchie asks. Mother’s Milk has a family, Hughie has his dad to check on, and he doesn’t know what Frenchie and The Female have waiting for them but anything is better than hiding out in this small space. 

Butcher finally turns around to face them, opposite shoulder now touching the wall, but he’s looking down at the phone in his hand instead of at any of them. Hughie can’t see his face, can’t read anything in his body language, and he needs to know what they’re doing next. Is he safe? Is his dad safe? What’s going to happen with the supes? What kind of _gone_ is Stillwell? Gone from Vought or something more permanent? Is Annie okay?

“Way I see it, boys, this can go one of two ways.” Butcher’s head raises so his eyes can sweep the room, can look over all of them before focusing on a point past all of them, and there’s heat in Hughie’s throat like he’s either going to be sick or start screaming. Before he can do either, Butcher starts talking again.

“Go back home. Do whatever the fuck you were doin’.”

He can go back to working at the store, or a similar store since Butcher drove through his old job. Working minimum wage and saving up. _(Saving up for what? He needed a raise so that he could save money and move out. So that he could move in with Robin, but Robin is gone now.)_ Back to sitting on the couch and watching TV with his dad, the same shows and the commercial songs that he hears in his sleep, and eating out of a microwave and soggy food cartoons. Talking with friends who don’t know what it looks like when another living being explodes. Passing snacks back and forth with hands that have never scrubbed under their nails to get rid of the blood and whatever it is that kind of looks like dark strawberry jam that gets stuck under the sides of fingernails and-

“Or, if you’re not a complete fuckin’ cunt, keep goin’ after the fuckers,” Butcher finishes. 

With mounting horror, Hughie realizes that he has already made his decision.

And then his fucking leg starts jiggling again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If I'm messing anything up, please let me know. Thank you for reading.


	2. The Choice

“You don’t have to go,” his dad is saying as Hughie scoops up an armful of tee shirts. Can he even wear tee shirts while unofficially working for the CIA? He thinks of Butcher’s awful tropical shirts, eyes the faded cotton in his arms, and shrugs before letting the pile drop onto the open bag on his bed. 

“It’s gonna be alright, Dad.” He’s not folding the tee shirts. He remembers hearing somewhere that more clothes can fit if they’re rolled instead of folded, so he watches the way his hands move as he tightly rolls his tee shirts instead of looking over at what he’s sure is a worried expression on his dad’s face. “Really, I’m not even going to be doing anything dangerous. And the pay is really good too, I told you how much they’re offering, and it’s what I want to do.”

It’s what he _wants_ to do. After everything, he should be happy to be at home. To be in his bedroom, to hear the TV playing in the other room, to smell the cooking meatloaf that he knows is going to taste a little dry. This is his life. No, no, no. This was his life. Getting up, going to work, drinking with friends, dates with Robin, watching TV with his dad. It was safe and boring and average. (In the few quiet moments, like when he looked at Annie or heard her laugh, he realized that he had taken his normal life for granted. Now that he knows how good he had it, he wishes he had appreciated it more in the moment. Not in hindsight.) Instead of staying home in his bubble of ignorant safety, he’s going to work for the CIA off the books to take in or take out supes that step out of line. He hasn’t died yet, and he’s hoping that streak continues.

“You’ll call me?” Hughie stops rolling shirts at the thin sound of his dad’s voice, and he feels his face shifting in a smile as he slowly straightens up. He scared his dad, with everything, and he knows that. He hates that he put his dad through that, but he can’t imagine returning to his old routine now that he knows about all of the crazy shit that happens.

“Yeah, Dad. I’ll call,” he says and even nods to back it up. A hand pats against his shoulder, squeezes and shakes him a little, and his dad smiles before leaving the room. Hughie waits until his bedroom closes before he starts packing again, but it doesn’t take him long.

There’s the rolled tee shirts, several pairs of rolled up jeans, socks, underwear. No one gave him a checklist of what he’ll need, Butcher had just said to grab some clothes, and Hughie spends a minute wrestling with the zipper on the old duffel bag before it finally closes. He looks around his room before he leaves it, and he doesn’t feel sad about leaving it like he thought he would. He actually feels out of place standing in the doorway, like he doesn’t belong here anymore. So he quickly closes the door, drops his duffel bag next to the front door, and then joins his dad in the living room for dinner. 

The meatloaf is dry, just like he knew it would be, even after he drowns it in ketchup. There’s the lingering taste of sawdust as he chews and listens to his dad talk, and he can feel his eyes burning as he forces the food down his throat. Wanting to cry from nostalgia before he’s even left. Two blinks clears up his vision so he can see the TV screen again, and he shovels in another bite. He’s hoping that he didn’t pick the choice that ends in certain death, but he likes to think that he’s lost some naivety and accepts that what he’s leaving to go do might possibly kill him. There’s a chance that this will be the last meal that he shares with his father, but even that thought isn’t enough to change his mind. He’s going to go through with it, so he eats his dry meatloaf and talks about what the neighbors were up to last weekend while a commercial plays.

When dinner is done and Hughie knows he needs to go, he hugs his dad and promises that he’ll call soon. Even after he picks up his duffel and starts walking away, he can feel his dad watching him. He doesn’t look back, doesn’t want to see how his dad is looking at him, because he wants to hold onto the memory of the two of them eating dinner together on the couch. By the time he’s out of view of his home, which isn’t really his home anymore, his mind is already spinning out of control. He’s thinking over everything that’s happened since Robin died, all of the crazy shit that he’s seen and done, and he can’t believe that he’s volunteering to see and do even more crazy shit.

Stillwell is at a black site, according to Butcher. Vought is still up and running, but it’s been completely reordered internally. The truth about Compound V is still a secret, no point in causing panic and ruining the economy by giving all of the supes complexes, but Raynor has a plan. They’re the plan, really. Butcher gave them a choice, to leave it all behind or to police the supes for the CIA unofficially, and Hughie has no idea how they’re going to do that but he guesses he’ll find out. The CIA isn’t going to claim them or fund them, but they will get paid after successful missions. (Hughie signed paperwork so that half of those checks will go to his dad before he left to go home. He also signed some kind of death bonus that’ll go to his dad, just in case.) This is going to be his life now. Policing supes while mostly broke and with a death bonus.

He’s waiting to cross the street when a hand grabs his collar and yanks him to the side, and his arms go all over the place as he kicks out. A sliding door slams shut, because he’s been pulled into a van, and he hears a muffled curse as his hand smacks against something solid. The curse then turns into a continuous stream of angry French, and Hughie locks up as he finally takes in his surroundings. Frenchie is rubbing his jaw and glaring down at him while The Female looks curiously at him, and his neck pops as he looks to the other side. Mother’s Milk is in the passenger seat of the van, with a paperback in one hand and ignoring everything, and Butcher is behind the wheel. Hughie catches a glance of Butcher’s eyes as he checks the rearview, and he feels himself relax before Butcher looks away.

“Be more careful, eh?” Frenchie asks and then pulls Hughie upright to sit in a seat instead of sprawling on the van floor.

“Yeah, yeah. Sorry, you okay?” Hughie is looking at Frenchie’s face, which doesn’t have a single mark on it, and his body rocks forwards when Frenchie slaps his shoulder and laughs. 

Hughie has made his choice. He’s going to stay with these strange people and do crazy idiotic things, and hopefully he won’t die in the process. Hopefully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	3. Six Weeks Later

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This isn't beta'd, so if you see any mistakes please let me know.

“You stupid motherfucker!” Hughie is flat on his back in a parking garage, broken glass from a broken car window being ground between concrete and his skin as he squirms, and his arms are shaking with the effort of holding a supe above him. Her eyebrows are thick and long enough to brush his face, but his eyes are locked on the two long fangs that are dripping drool onto his cheeks. Each drop of thick saliva burns his skin, and his hands are locked around her biceps as he strains to stop her from eating his fucking face off. 

“Little help here!” Hughie’s scream is a little higher pitched than he’s happy with, bouncing off glass and concrete, and all he can think about is Scooby-Doo. Nothing good ever happens when the gang splits up. MM took Frenchie and Kimiko to hunt down Hellcat’s partner, and then Hughie and Butcher split up to search the multi-level parking garage where they had tracked Hellcat to.

Now Hughie is trapped under a supe who wants to eat _his fucking face_, staring down a pair of razor-sharp fangs, and his scream when short sharpened claws dig into his ribcage breaks halfway through into a grunted sob as Hellcat gets closer to his face and snaps her jaws. 

“You stupid weak pussy motherfucker! Did you really think that you could fucking kill me?!” Hellcat snarls and bucks in his hold. 

His fingers are slipping against her skin and his arms are shaking, and he suddenly feels a rushing spike of anger as he realizes that Hellcat’s furry face might be the last thing he ever sees. Eyebrows long enough to braid, short whiskers, and bared yellowing fangs will not be the last thing that Hughie sees in his lifetime. The rush of adrenaline causes his arms to tense to the point that he can feel what muscle he has starting to quiver, and his throat burns as he suddenly starts to scream. He uses the hold he has on Hellcat’s biceps to roughly pull her downwards as he slides his head and shoulders to the right, and the fact that she had been straining to attack his face means that she pushes herself downwards even harder than if it had been just him pulling on her. 

Next to his right ear, he hears the crunch of bone against concrete. Hellcat actually yowls as her face smashes against the ground, and he kicks out and drives his knees into her stomach as he crawls out from under her. He winds up scrambling on his back to get away from her, and he’s still on his ass and holding himself up on his hands when Hellcat raises onto her knees. He freezes as he takes in the flattened look of her nose, and she reaches up to prod at one of her fangs. As soon as her fingers press against it, the fang finishes cracking and it drops to the concrete. Hellcat looks at him in disbelief at first, but that look quickly turns into rage and then she’s lunging at him. 

Hughie turns to try and crawl away, to find a way to get to his feet and get the hell out of there, but those claws dig into his leg and hold fast. When Hughie kicks out, she holds on tighter and sinks her remaining fang into the meat of his calf right behind his knee. He screams and kicks at her face until the fang dislodges, and her claws shred his clothes as she climbs up his body. One hand locks around her throat in an attempt to keep her from biting him anywhere else, and his other hand is groping around wildly for anything that he can use to knock her off of him. He did have a gun before running into the parking garage but lost it when Hellcat first jumped on him, somewhere around the time that she slung him up against a car hard enough to break the window out, but all he can feel is the smooth ground.

Right when things are looking dire and Hughie is sure that Hellcat is going to use her remaining fang to rip open his jugular, blood rains down and soaks his face. There’s even blood in his eyes, but he can still see a large blade sticking out of the center of Hellcat’s face. The supe is gurgling and twitching on top of him, and he doesn’t move as she’s pulled off of him and tossed onto the ground beside him. Only his head turns so he can watch Butcher plant a boot at the base of Hellcat’s neck, and he pulls the blade free in one harsh yank. 

“Where did you get a machete?” Hughie’s voice sounds far away, like he’s sitting on a cloud and far removed from this very fucked up situation where Butcher wipes blood and hair off the sharp blade of a machete, but the pain he can feel is very real. His left leg is on fire, and he can feel every spot on his ribs and stomach where claws had dug in deep. Under the blood, his face is tight and itchy like the worst kind of sunburn.

Butcher’s only reply to the question is a quick smirk, and he taps the still bloodied blade against his thigh as he looks down at Hughie. His head cocks to the side, assessing and curious, and Hughie’s back throbs hotly where the glass cut through his shirt and made it to his skin. After a tense moment where Butcher just stares at him, he finally asks, “Fuck’s sake, Hughie, what’d you let that cunt do to you?”

“Let?!” His voice cracks on the single word, throat raw from screaming earlier, and he finally pushes the heels of his hands against the ground and forces his upper body up. When he makes it that far, Butcher offers him a hand. Hughie gratefully takes it and lets himself be pulled to his feet, and he starts to say thanks when his left leg suddenly decides to do a limp noodle impression. “Shit!”

His hands reach out on instinct to stop himself from falling, fingers slipping against leather and curling desperately for purchase, and he manages to hook his hands over Butcher’s shoulders. His face winds up pushing against the zipper of Butcher’s leather jacket, the blood on his face slipping against the already slick material, and his teeth grind together as he tries to put weight on his left leg. As soon as he tries, his leg buckles again and he nearly falls even though he’s holding onto Butcher like the other man is his own personal crutch. Through it all, Butcher just stands completely still and doesn’t offer any kind of help. Hughie lets his left foot hover above the ground and waits until he feels steady before looking up at Butcher, and it looks like he’s struggling not to laugh. When their eyes meet, Butcher grins so wide that Hughie can see both rows of his teeth.

“You knocked out the cunt’s fang?” When Hughie’s face scrunches up in confusion, he can feel the blood congealing on his eyelashes. Butcher looks to the side, and Hughie tightens his grip on Butcher’s shoulders before following his line of sight. The broken off fang is still on the ground, and Hughie doesn’t look away until Butcher starts dragging him.

He can hear protests pouring from his mouth as he tries to hop on his right foot and fails, and he abruptly stops making sound as Butcher knocks out a car window with his elbow. He reaches inside the car and the locks pop quietly. Butcher hauls Hughie around to the other side of the car and pushes him into the passenger seat, and Hughie clenches his eyes shut as he slumps in the seat. He doesn’t even bother to open his eyes when he hears Butcher get into the driver seat, which is why he’s so surprised when something bounces off of his stomach. His hands scramble to catch whatever it is, his knees bang into the underside of the dashboard, and he gets his fist around something solid. He rotates his wrist and uncurls his fingers, and the broken off fang is lying in his palm. 

There’s the sound of muffled cursing followed by tinny sparks, but Hughie ignores it all as he looks at the fang resting on his palm. The tip is still sharp, but he can’t feel any of the toxic drool that has his face burning like he stuck his head in an oven. It feels light, so light that it’s nearly hard to imagine it being buried in his neck or ripping the skin from his face, but then he remembers the searing pain of the other fang tearing through the skin and muscle behind his knee and curls his fingers around the broken fang so he can’t see it anymore. Then he closes his eyes again for extra measure and rests his head against the cool glass of the passenger window, and he only tenses up for a moment when the car suddenly starts.

By the time they ditch the car, the fang is stuffed in the pocket of Hughie’s jeans and his left leg feels heavy like he’s dragging an anchor around. Butcher decides where they should leave the car, and Hughie has to lean on him to walk back to their shitty motel room. He’s glad of their similar heights because it makes it easier for him to sling an arm around Butcher’s shoulders, and Butcher easily takes his weight and locks an arm around Hughie’s waist to half-carry and half-drag Hughie for the next twenty-seven minutes. (Hughie counts because it’s better than focusing on the pins and needles spread throughout his upper body, and it’s definitely better than agonizing over the state of his uncooperative leg.) It’s a good thing that it’s late and that they can stick close to the shadows, so no one notices them as they slink around. Well, as they slink around lumberingly. 

There’s no relief when they reach their motel room, because he has started to convince himself that his leg is going to need to be amputated. Butcher drags him inside and manages to hold him up while locking the door, and the two of them weave their way through the dark room until they’re standing in the dimly lit bathroom. Butcher drops him onto the closed toilet lid and then walks out mumbling to himself, and Hughie looks down at his ruined clothes. His tee shirt is ripped and stained with what looks like a gallon of blood, and his jeans are just as bad. Even his shoes are bloodstained, but he’s not throwing his shoes away.

“Alright, get your kit off,” Butcher says as he walks back into the bathroom. Hughie startles at the sound of his voice echoing off the tiles and looks over to see him laying a large case on the small bit of counter next to the sink. He quickly unzips it and flips the top up, and Hughie’s eyes widen as he looks at all of the medical supplies. 

“What?” His eyes are stuck on a large needle and a pair of shiny pliers, and he’s aware that Butcher is pulling out bandages but still can’t look away.

“Shirt, trousers, get ‘em off,” Butcher explains. Right. _Right_. He needs to be checked out, patched up, and that can’t be done with his clothes still on.

Shoes first. He slips them off and puts them to the side, but he tosses his bloodied socks into the corner of the small bathroom. Before he takes his jeans off, he pulls the fang out and carefully sits it on the counter. He keeps his boxers on, because there is absolutely no reason for him to take his boxers off, and then carefully peels his shirt up. The fabric pulls at the glass embedded in his back and causes him to hiss, but he eventually gets his shirt off to toss it into the corner with his socks and jeans. As soon as that’s done, a wet washcloth slaps wetly against his chest. He turns to glare up at Butcher as he picks it up out of his lap, where it had immediately fallen, but Butcher isn’t paying him any attention so he stops glaring and starts scrubbing at his face. 

“Did I get it all? I feel like I didn’t get it all,” Hughie says and looks up at Butcher. His brows raise in what Hughie thinks is surprise, which is not a good thing, and then he bends down to snatch the washcloth from Hughie’s hands.

“Fuckin’ hell, son, what’d that kitty cunt do to your face?” Butcher has his hand cupped under Hughie’s chin so he can turn his head from side to side, inspecting every inch of his face, and Hughie feels panic start to crawl up his throat. 

“Why? What’s wrong with my face? What does it look like? What’s wrong with my face?” He can hear his voice getting high and thin but can’t stop the panic flooding through him, and Butcher’s fingers press into his jaw for a moment as his eyes narrow on Hughie’s face. 

“Looks like you cozied up to a boom-stick.” Butcher lets his face go and lightly smacks the back of his fingers against Hughie’s cheek, which stings just like a sunburn, and Hughie’s mouth dries out as his jaw comes unhinged. “’M just takin’ the piss, Hughie. Little bit o’ sunburn that’ll be gone before you know it.”

“That’s not funny,” Hughie says quietly and seriously. Butcher just shrugs, and Hughie finally notes that his jacket gone and he’s just in a dark blue tropical shirt. The dark palm trees sway with his movements.

“It’s a little bit funny,” Butcher counters and then stands up. 

After a moment of the two of them looking at Hughie’s leg, Butcher gets some alcohol and bandages. He drops to kneel on the floor since Hughie can’t really see the back of his leg without twisting his already hurting body in a painful way, and he clenches his hands in his lap as Butcher takes care of him. Once there’s a bandage wrapping around his leg under his knee, Butcher moves on to the cuts on his ribs and stomach. Thankfully none of them are bad enough to require stitches, but Hughie still grunts when Butcher slaps a band-aid onto the worst of the claw marks. Hughie thinks he’s done until he rolls his shoulders forwards and winces at the pain in his back, and Butcher catches the wince. 

One large hand grips the back of Hughie’s neck and pulls him forwards, and Butcher quietly clicks his tongue when he sees the mess spread across Hughie’s upper back. When his hand slides around to the top of Hughie’s shoulder and Hughie looks up, he decides that he doesn’t like the look on Butcher’s face. Butcher proves him right when he reaches down to grab Hughie’s bicep and hauls him up, and he keeps him upright as he moves him to face towards the sink. Hughie’s weight is balanced on his right leg, and his palms are pressed flat against the sink counter. He sees Butcher wielding a pair of tweezers right before there’s a strange tugging sensation right between his shoulder blades, and he bites his bottom lip as Butcher starts pulling the glass out.

Every time another small sliver of glass is pulled out of his back, Hughie grunts quietly and presses his fingers against the counter a little harder. A few times he leans away from the pain, which causes Butcher to press in closer, and Butcher’s free hand grips his shoulder to try to hold him still. His heartrate spikes, pulse in his throat beating stronger as he swallows, and it has nothing to do with the pain. Glass being pulled out of his back hurts, it stings and burns and a hundred other synonyms, but it’s a pain that he can handle after having a supe bite into his leg. For some reason, it’s the closeness that’s making his blood pump a little faster. 

It’s been six weeks since he made the choice to leave his old life behind, except for weekly calls to his dad, but it has been over a month since he’s been close to anyone. Right now, he can feel the heat coming off of Butcher’s body and there’s a little bit of sweat starting to pool at the base of his spine. The hand holding onto his shoulder is strong, calluses scratching softly against his skin, and he desperately tells his body that this closeness means nothing. His breathing is a little faster than normal when Butcher finishes with him, but he doesn’t move. He can’t move, not without completely embarrassing himself, and he bites the inside of his cheek for a moment as he prays that Butcher doesn’t push him to turn around.

“Thanks.” His throat is still dry so the single word comes out rough, and he clears his throat before trying again. “Thanks, uh, for all the help. Really, thanks.”

Hughie doesn’t trust himself to even look over his shoulder, because what if the rest of his body tries to follow the movement? So he looks up instead and meets Butcher’s eyes in the mirror, and Butcher looks the same as he always does. If he suspects that anything is going on with Hughie’s body, especially below the belt which is a ridiculous thought since he’s not even wearing pants, it’s not showing on his face. He does raise a brow in question, probably because Hughie isn’t even attempting to move and is doing his best statue impersonation, and Hughie’s mind latches on to the first excuse that he can think of.

“I, uh, I just gotta take a shit and then I’ll, I’ll be right out,” he rushes to say. Butcher grins and shakes his head, and Hughie sighs and lets his head hang forwards.

“Good work tonight, Hughie,” Butcher says with a quick slap to his ass. The bathroom door closes a second later, leaving Hughie alone in the bathroom, and his back curves as he drops one elbow down onto the counter. He bites his knuckle as his other hand slips into his boxers, and all of the adrenaline from the night has his body begging for a quick release. 

As Hughie fists his cock and muffles his groans, he tries not to think about Butcher’s hands on his skin. Tries, fails, and doesn’t cum until he’s imagining strong hands holding onto his shoulders and holding him down. 

_“I am so fucked,”_ doesn’t even begin to cover it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


	4. All Mixed Up

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Life is a cruel mistress, which is why I haven’t updated in nearly five months. I might keep the chapters short so that I can update more frequently, but sometimes chapters get away from me. 
> 
> Thank you so much to everyone reading! Also, sorry in advance for any mistakes. I am writing and posting on my phone, and this is completely unbeta’d.

“That makes," Butcher starts. He pauses because the sudden sound of his voice behind him startles Hughie so much that he visibly jumps and audibly gasps, and the sudden movement causes him to nearly drop his phone into the murky pool at the cheap motel they're staying in. Hughie just manages to catch his phone, flattening it between his hands and lower stomach, and he lets out a relieved sigh just as Butcher starts talking again. "Three times this week that you've called your dad. Why is that, Hughie?" 

Hughie is tired, bone deep exhaustion from all the sleuthing around they've been doing for the past two weeks, so he doesn't check his words before speaking. Just parts his lips and says, "Because I'm going to die tomorrow and I want to say goodbye without actually saying goodbye."

"Ah, Hughie." Compared to Hughie's listless tone, Butcher sounds downright cheery as he slings an arm around Hughie's shoulders and jostles him against his side.

"Don't _Ah,Hughie_me. We're going against a supe who clones himself, and we don't know how many clones he can make but do know it's at least ten. Statistically, one of us is going to die and it's going to be me. So stop looking at me like that," Hughie says and then lets his chin drop down. Their surveillance picked up at least ten clones of the supe who calls himself the Replicator, which means they'll be outnumbered. The only thing that they have going for them is that the original supe has tattoos across his face and completely covering his bald head while the clones don't, and Frenchie is sure that killing the original will kill all of the clones. Which is only helpful if they can get through the clones to actually kill the original. 

Hughie groans and lifts his head a little, and he can see Butcher's expression from the corner of his eye. The indulgent smile and judgmental eyes are gone, replaced by a kind of seriousness that never bodes well for Hughie. There's still an arm over his shoulders, but it's not the same loose jovial hold. Fingers are sinking into the slowly forming muscle of his upper arm, and he can feel the tenseness of Butcher’s forearm against the back of his neck. His hip keeps bumping against Butcher's, because he's never been great at keeping perfectly still unlike Butcher who is so immobile that it's a little eerie, and he fights against the urge to wiggle. Whatever Butcher is seriously thinking on looks too important to interrupt, but Hughie needs something to change. He's starting to flush, a little hot under the collar and there's an incessant need to fidget, but instead he bites at his lip and taps his fingers against the outsides of his thighs. 

“Listen, Hughie, I am not goin’ to let you die.” Butcher’s voice is too quiet and low; Hughie can feel the vibrations in his chest as he leans more into Butcher to hear him better, and Butcher’s face is too close to his because Hughie can see faint freckles on sun-darkened skin and there’s a small scar at the end of his right eyebrow that shines a little under the dull streetlights outside of the motel. 

“You don’t really get a say in it,” Hughie hears himself say. He’s trying to see if that’s a freckle on Butcher’s eyelid, but he’s keeping his eyes open and keeps ducking his head to catch Hughie’s wandering gaze. “If I’m going to die, I’m going to die and there’s nothing you can do about it.”

That is clearly the wrong thing to say, because Butcher’s face tightens in a way that Hughie has never really seen before despite seeing Butcher in several stages of anger ranging from slight annoyance to overwhelming fury. This is something different, something new. Hughie doesn’t get long to study the look before Butcher is moving; the arm around his shoulders moves to the front of his body, Butcher’s hand fisting the front of his tee shirt while his arm presses tight against his chest, and then Butcher is standing in front of him. Butcher crowds in close, pushes him back, and Hughie can feel his shoes slipping against the concrete as he struggles not to trip over his own feet. He’s just about to give up and let himself fall when his back is slammed against a wall, and he looks to the left and right to see the long stretch of the single-story motel. There’s a bit of an awning over Hughie’s head, keeping him in shadows while Butcher is framed by the dull orange light of the streetlights. 

_”Too close, too close, too close,”_ Hughie thinks as Butcher breathes heavily and looks at him like he’s going to kill him now to save Hughie the trouble of being killed tomorrow. Even with that threat hanging thick in the air between them, Hughie’s pulse isn’t racing with fear. Butcher’s boots are lined up with his shoes, thighs are brushing against his, and the breath on his face is warm. 

“Take it back,” Butcher growls in his face. For a moment, Hughie can’t remember what they were just talking about. What does he need to take back? All he can focus on is the arm putting bruising pressure against his chest, like if he pushes any harder Hughie’s heart won’t be able to beat. _Right._ They’re talking about how Hughie is probably going to die tomorrow and there’s nothing Butcher can do to stop it. 

“Why?” Hughie questions. People die all the time. At some point, Hughie is going to die. Probably sooner rather than later, considering his choice to hunt down supes.

“Because if you go into a fight thinkin’ you’re gonna die, you probably will.” That sounds somewhat reasonable. Going into a fight with a clear and positive mindset is probably considerably more beneficial than fighting while waiting to die, but it’s not like Hughie can flip a switch to turn his thoughts from negative to positive. It’s not like he can think at all right now. Because when Hughie doesn’t reply immediately, Butcher pins him harder with his arm and steps more fully against him. He can feel the heat of Butcher’s thigh between his legs and smell generic motel soap, and Hughie’s heart starts beating in his throat as his whole body flashes with heat. He needs Butcher to back away, to stop crowding into his personal space and to give him some breathing room, and Hughie hopes that Butcher can’t feel how his body is reacting to the close proximity. 

“Okay! I take it back!” Hughie rushes out in his panic. With any luck, Butcher will think that the panic is from the increasing pressure of his forearm against the line of Hughie’s collarbones. 

Butcher’s face transforms again as he smiles, putting crinkles next to his eyes and making him look almost not-dangerous, and Hughie’s head rolls against the rough wall as Butcher finally takes a step back. Hughie’s body is still shielded by the shadows, but Butcher is illuminated by an orange glow as he reaches out to fix Hughie’s wrinkled shirt. His cock throbs as hands gently smooth across his chest, fixing the frayed collar of his old tee, and he can’t help thinking about pulling Butcher back in and rolling his hips against a strong thigh. Hughie’s fingers curl into such a tight fist that he can feel his nails biting into his palms, and Butcher stops touching him and smiles one last time before turning to walk in the direction of the room that they’re all sharing. Hughie turns his head just in time to see Butcher raise his hand in a wave, and he yells back at Hughie without turning to look at him. 

“That’s all I wanted to hear! Don’t stay up too late! We got a big day tomorrow!” 

Hughie stays frozen until Butcher disappears from sight and then he slumps back against the wall. His shoulders feel a little stiff from being pushed against the wall and there’s a dull ache across his chest, but those minor annoyances aren’t enough to redirect his blood flow. He’s aching in his jeans and breathing too heavy, and it’s a miracle that Butcher didn’t notice what state he was in. It’s been nearly a month since that night Hughie got off thinking about Butcher, and he had been so sure that it was a one time anomaly until tonight. Logically, he knows that it’s just his body responding to someone else’s. That it’s a physical reaction he would experience with anyone that he didn’t find repulsive; it’s just a reaction to a physical stimulus, like his high school lab partner told him the day she moved her hand up his thigh under the chemistry table. 

The temptation to shove his hand down his pants and remember the heat of Butcher’s body is so strong that he catches his fingertips sliding across his zipper, but he can’t touch himself and think about Butcher again. If he turns that into a habit, his cock will have a Pavlovian reaction to Butcher’s presence and that is not something that Hughie wants to deal with on a daily basis. He thinks about jumping into the pool to cool himself down, but he rejects the idea eventually. Instead he stays against the wall and thinks about how he set the arm of his sweater on fire before Lab Partner Casey even reached his zipper. Remembers the scent of burning hair as the flames burned off one of her eyebrows and feels his erection slowly starting to wane. The feeling left behind is unsettling, his stomach clenches up and he can feel fresh sweat on his palms, and he slides the rest of the way down the wall to sit on the hard concrete ground. His legs stretch out in front of him, orange light coating his shoes and slanting across his jeans, and he just listens to his own too-fast breathing for a minute. 

He realizes, several minutes later after his breathing has normalized, that he can leave. He can get up, start walking, and not stop until he makes it home. He can see his dad’s face instead of just imagining him while talking on the phone in quick snatches. Life doesn’t have to be this dangerous. He can get a normal job, wake up every morning with only the fear of running late, and he can put the past several months behind him and move forward. Maybe he’ll meet someone. Go on dates, laugh at a stupid joke, and possibly even live into old age. No one is keeping him here. The choice is completely his. His legs even draw up like he’s preparing to stand. 

Something presses in sharp against the top of his thigh, and his hand pats against the front left pocket of his jeans. His fingers touch against a solid shape, smooth and tapering into a point, and Hughie’s fingers tap against it through the worn-smooth denim. It’s the fang from the supe that almost ate his face, until Butcher swooped in to save him at the last minute. Hughie kicked the fang out while trying to get away and Butcher picked it up instead of leaving it in the parking lot, and Hughie has been carrying it around with him ever since. He keeps tapping against it, in bursts of three, and he knows that his decision hasn’t changed. Having a normal life might be a good idea one day, but he can’t pretend like he doesn’t know what supes really get up to. If he can maybe save someone else’s Robin, he’s going to stick with it. So he presses back against the wall and carefully pushes himself up, and he rolls out the tension in his shoulders before turning in the direction where the motel room is. 

He needs to get some sleep. He’s got a big day tomorrow.

**THE NEXT DAY**

The others have already stepped away from the van and towards the bank that is going to be robbed in the next five minutes by the Replicator, and Hughie is about to walk after Frenchie when a hand tightly grips his bicep and jerks him to the side. The sudden movement causes him to stumble, but Butcher’s body seems to just absorb the extra weight as Hughie leans heavily against him. Butcher is standing with his back pressed up against the rear door of the van, shielding them at the end of the alley next to the bank, and Hughie finally regains his equilibrium and starts to step back. He gets one foot raised when Butcher’s free hand grips the back of his neck and pulls Hughie in close, and he can feel his heart rabbiting in his chest as Butcher adjusts his hand for a gentler hold. His first thought is to close his eyes and enjoy the warmth of Butcher’s body nearly pressed again his, but he fights that particular impulse and keeps his eyes open wide. Before he can ask what Butcher is doing, he leans in so close that Hughie is sure that Butcher is going to kiss him for a moment. Butcher just touches their foreheads together though, and he can feel the cold tip of Butcher’s nose against his as fingers flex against the back of his neck and curl into his hair.

“You straight?” He can feel the words against his lips, warm breath and the smell of faded mint, and he feels like laughing all of a sudden. 

_”I want you to kiss me,”_ Hughie thinks and confirms that he’s definitely not as straight as he thought he was. 

“What?” is what he says out loud. 

“No more dying thoughts?” Butcher clarifies. He’s checking up on him, after their conversation the night before, and now is not the time to feel a nervous fluttering in his stomach. He’s also not going to think about the note to his dad tucked into his shoe, just in case. 

“I am not dying today,” Hughie says with more confidence than he feels. Butcher’s smile is bright and Hughie feels his body swaying forward as he wonders if he would be able to taste mint on Butcher’s tongue, and he’s saved by the sound of Frenchie quietly yelling their names. Butcher taps their foreheads together and then pushes Hughie around the side of the van, and the two of them start walking towards a very annoyed looking Frenchie. 

“What are you doing, huh? You got something more important to do?” Frenchie asks once they’re closer. 

“Just squeezing in a good luck quickie,” Butcher quips. That made-in-jest statement is followed by a quick slap to Hughie’s ass, Frenchie rolling his eyes, and finally Butcher winking at him before following Frenchie inside the side door to the bank. 

Hughie pauses in the doorway, looking at the _Employees Only_ sign, and takes in a steadying breath. He is not dying today, but he has a feeling that being around Butcher is going to kill him any day now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
